The Hole in the Bottom of the Sea
by Palsgraf
Summary: After a mechanical failure brings down her helicopter Harper finds herself sucked into Middle Earth.  She struggles to maintain her sanity, and survive in an unknown world.
1. Chapter 1

**Part I: **

The Hole in the Bottom of the Sea

1. The sinking feeling was slow...gradual...a centimeter at a time she slipped, down, down, down, to the bottom of the sea.

_There's a hole in the bottom of the sea. _

_There's a hole in the bottom of the sea…_a grave.

Was it a shark that brushed against her struggling legs? Pumping up and down, slower and slower…The salt stung her eyes.

They'd rip her to shreds, nothing left for anyone to find, like that surfer last year, vanished near the pier of Folly Beach, nothing left for anyone to bury,remains only in the excrement of fish-sinking slowly to the bottom of the sea.

_There's a hole in the bottom of the sea…_

She inhaled another mouthful of water, sputtering and coughing until vomit rose in her throat- more chum for the sharks. _Stay calm,_ she repeated over and over again, trying to quiet the fear rumbling within her gut, an instinct which screamed PANIC!!

Somewhere above a gull cackled, laughing at her, a drowning human, alone in the overwhelming ocean. The sky darkened. The water churned. How long had she been treading water? Why hadn't she seen a boat? Why didn't her brother find her?

And she slipped another centimeter.

_Never fight a rip current_, she'd been told again and again, by her father who taught them to swim, by her mother who took them to the beach every Saturday during the summer, and by her grandfather, who made them swim in the ocean for an eternity each morning. And finally the time had come when her brother surpassed her in strength and endurance; she fell behind him early on, then the tide caught her, charging her like some wild creature. She let it take her away.

Her foot touched something rough. She bit back a scream. _Big girls don't cry,_ her father said. _A lady is discreet, _Nana Leonard told her, sitting in the old dining room, table perfectly set, _she controls her emotions. Now, which fork is for salad?_

Another centimeter; _there's a hole in the bottom of sea, _the sharks chanted as they circled her, _there's a hole in the bottom of the sea,_ round and round, down and down. _Big girls don't cry. _

The water was some sick color, putrid brown, filthy, polluted. It choked her. _A lady is discreet._ Her legs cramped. How long had she been out there? Hours? Days? The minutes changed like seasons. Surely her brother knew she was lost. He'd swim to shore and get their grandfather; they'd call the coast guard and search for her by air and by boat.

But she heard no engines, nothing but the waves swelling around her and a cackling gull. _You're going to die, Harper,_ it waited to gobble up any bits of flesh missed by the sharks. _You're going to die_.

Her legs stopped working. "Don't panic; stay calm," she said aloud, her grandfather's mantra; he didn't panic when he stormed the beaches of Normandy, _goddamnit, _and those Nazi _sonsabitches_ ran like cowards from the cold steel of Sonny Hatley's rifle. What would he say, the Colonel, if he knew she'd given up? But try as she might her legs would not move. The water slipped up to her chin.

_There's a girl in the hole in the bottom of the sea_

Memories of that day washed away in the flood waters of the present-another time when she'd been lost…

The copter lay 100 yards to the South, a dying insect, heaving its last breath in the scorching desert sands. Inside Lamb Chop and Percy roasted, like birds forgotten in an oven; the smell of their burning flesh assaulted her nostrils and stomach, causing her to up-chuck and dry-heave until her guts were on fire, and she lay exhausted in the sand. Stew lay beside her, dying. He'd pulled her out of the wreckage, and it'd be the death of him.

Fonzi and Smitty were thrown from the copter when it went down. A mechanical failure, God didn't give them the honor of enemy fire; no, a fucking mechanical failure took them down in the middle of the Afghani desert. Fonzi landed in rocky terrain. She found him easily enough; he'd only been thrown fifty feet, maybe sixty. His neck looked funny; Harper saw that first, then the blood splattered rock by his head, the jagged pieces of bone that'd once been his skull and the gray brain matter seeping into the sand.

Smitty hit the blades, still turning when they crashed into the ground. Already carrion birds were circling, swooping down occasionally to grab a piece of the young pilot, just a kid really, barely 25. His high school sweetheart had gone and fucked some Jody six months prior. Harper and Stew stayed up with him all night, drinking Jack Black. They went around waking up every private on base before finally finding one who could work a tattoo gun (and actually had a tattoo gun).

"I could have killed that Jody," she said suddenly, more angry than she'd ever been in her life. "I should have killed him, Stew. We should have taken a plane straight to Ft. Elemdorf and killed that mother-fucker for Smitty, instead of getting drunk as fuck." The bright sun stung her eyes. _Big girls don't cry._

"Cap," Stew gasped, drifting back into a painful consciousness. Third-degree burns seared the majority of his skin, his leg so badly broken, that the femur could seen through a tear in the green fabric of his pants. "Tell 'em I died a hero. I just…I just…" He coughed up blood, wheezing like a dying old man, like Grandpa Leonard who smoked his entire life, emphysema finally catching up to him at 75. They'd knock on the door of his room, a nurse letting them in, and sit with him in silence for hours, just listening to his haggard breathing, while Nana sat beside him, face cold as stone. Even then Harper knew death when she heard it. "Please, Harper, I can't take it…please end it."

She squatted next to him, grasping his left hand-the other was mangled beyond recognition- and spoke the same empty words. "You're going to make it, Stewball. Hang in there. Help will be here soon."

"Just shoot me," he begged, his eyebrows singed clear off his face. When they were five her brother had taken a magnifying glass to G.I. Joe; the plastic figure's head melted and warped into something monstrous, and Harper remembered being afraid that something like that could ever happen to her. Did it hurt him, she wandered, and how would anyone ever love something so ugly? Now she stared at that figure, wishing she had it in her to waste him. It was the right thing to do, wasn't it? She pulled her back-up-back-up weapon from her leg holster, a Smith & Wesson .38 special. Stew deserved to die by a true American gun, not that standard issue Beretta mass-produced piece of shit, not even her SIG P220 Carry Elite-a gun that had never failed her-but a Smith & Wesson, as American as apple pie.

She cocked the revolver, her hand trembling like first time she shot a gun, a petite .22 their grandfather gave her for their 7th birthday; people at the shooting range stared at them in bewilderment, an old soldier and his grandchildren, learning to shoot.

She didn't hit the target at all that day.

Her finger cuddled the trigger. "Please," Stew gasped, her Lieutenant, her friend. _Just do it, Harper._ It was the right thing to do, to end his suffering, like a horse with a broken a leg, like a mad dog, the only way was a bullet to the head.

But he wasn't some wounded animal. He was a man, Lt. Stewart McQueen. He had a family, a daughter, little Maddie, with light brown hair and darling blue eyes, just like her father. "Please, Cap."

What would his wife say when she found out Harper shot him before help arrived? They'd call her a murderer. She'd be court-marshaled and her career flushed down the drain. _Please, Harper_. But what kind of life would he have? His right hand had to go, probably his leg as well and his face…_how will anyone ever love something so ugly?_ "I can't stand it, Harper." She'd go to jail. "The pain." Maybe they could still save him. "Please, I can't take it."

"Shut-up!" She yelled, suddenly angry at him for putting her in this position. It wasn't _fair_. "Just shut-up."

A gurgling sound rose from his throat. His chest heaved one last time. "Stew? Stew I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" Harper looked into his eyes, no longer a clear blue, they glazed over with death. Twice she failed him that day.

She bit back the tears. _Big girls don't cry._

The minutes changed like seasons. How long had they been out there? Baking in the roasting sun, smoke still rising from the fallen copter; it was a gradual slide, dying of thirst, a centimeter at a time.

Everything had slipped out of her control. Her friends were dead. They died on her watch. The sand burned her eyes. Someone had to know. Percy must have radioed a mayday call, with all the GPS tracking shit, they had to be looking. Colonel MacAfee, he'd send out another copter, one mechanical failure free, to pick up the bodies and any survivors.

The water was all gone, food, med-packs; pain shot through her right knee. It was always the right knee, since a mid-season game her last year at the academy, when she'd been fouled by a girl from Navy they called Cookie Monster, and her knee, perhaps already weakened from years of pounding up and down the court, twisted sickly beneath her; the year she was supposed to lead her team to the championship, and she was out.

A black snake slithered onto Stewball's body. "Get," she said, subconsciously backing away. The snake's tongue darted in and out of its mouth, as if that were its way of licking its chops. It slid across Stew's chest. "Get off of him!" she ordered. "I'm an officer you little piece of shit, and I do not tolerate insubordination." But the snake didn't care if she was Captain or some grunt, they were all the same. She felt suddenly very silly, commanding a snake like she would an insolate recruit, and she laughed at that-a crazy noise echoing off the sand.

The heat was getting to her. Sweat poured down her face. The snake stared at her; its beady black eyes boring into her own. It occurred to her that she knew those eyes; she'd seen them before, somewhere…_where?_ In and out, the split tongue darted, servant of evil, _Harper,_ it hissed, _he's coming for you._

"What?" she stammered, shaking her head as if to snap herself back into reality. It couldn't be real, just a dream. They were still in that little village, where she spoke to the men and women, making friends, searching for military combatants (or whatever the hell they were called now). The children ran about the dirty little huts. She'd fallen asleep was all. The snake laughed. _Silly girl, you're wide awake, and he's coming for you._ "Why me?" _Your brother's not here to save you this time_.

She scrambled away, like a coward, a silly little girl afraid of a damn snake-a talking snake-and it was right: Her brother wouldn't be lifting her out of the water this time.

The sand began to shift beneath her, round and round it twirled, like those damn sharks she'd imagined when she was fourteen and drowning-but she'd _felt _them brush against her legs-round and round, down and down, the sand was going to gobble her up, and she'd be digested for a thousand years, or die a thousand deaths, and Cal wouldn't be there to pull her out, and no Jedi knight would swoop down to save her.

Harper turned her back and ran from the forming pit-if her grandfather had seen he would have snarled his lip in disgust. He didn't run away on D-Day, no, he stormed those Normandy beaches _goddamnit_, and fifty Nazi _sonsabitches_, fell victim to his Garand M1(a gun he'd given her brother, but she got the Sauer 38H he pulled off a dead German). Her head lowered in shame.

_Harper,_ it called, a woman's voice, beautiful and terrifying, _Harper._ That was it; she'd lost her mind, section 8, talking snakes and sand pits. _You have to let go, Harper_. Tears welled up her eyes.

_Big girls don't cry._

_A lady is discreet. _

In every direction the sand gave way. The sky darkened. _You have to let go. _Let go? Let go of what, her sanity? If they found her before she died of thirst would they laugh at the sun-burnt little skirt, trying to be a soldier, rambling on about talking snakes and sand pits, section 8-and she hadn't even been in the shit- would they laugh and say, _this is why women have no place in the military, listen to this crazy bitch? _

_He's coming, Harper,_ the snake hissed.

_You have to let go,_ the woman's voice cooed.

And as she conceded her defeat there in the desert, plopping down in the sand, waiting to be consumed, USAF Captain Harper Annabelle Leonard sang softly: _There's a hole in the bottom of the sea._


	2. Chapter 2

"Open your eyes, my child." The woman's voice floated through the air, but it was different than before. "You are safe."

Harper opened her eyes. Han Solo and Princess Leia sat upon thrones before her. "What the fuck," she muttered, slack-jawed. She could just hear the grunts' gossip: _Oh yeah, Leonard's section 8, they found her on a sand dune blabbing to Han Solo and Princess Leia about the resistance. _

Han's eyebrows rose, his forehead crinkled. "Ah," he said, sounding just like Harrison Ford. "The forms we have chosen seem to be confusing her."

"You were thinking of these persons before you entered the portal," Leia informed her. _Yeah, elementary my dear Watson, _Harper thought. "We felt perhaps it would reassure you to take forms familiar to you. Have we chosen badly?" She asked like a child afraid of having unintentionally committed some wrong, yet Harper knew to answer carefully, lest she commit another section 8 faux pas.

"Oh no," she said. "Not at all, um, Princess…I just…where am I? I mean…am I dead? Is this like, Purgatory or something, or am I in a straightjacket locked up somewhere?"

They laughed; their laughter the ringing of golden church bells, mellow, joyous, and beautiful. Han wore his quintessential black vest and white shirt, tight pants. Leia was decked out in white, hair looking like a couple of ear muffs, golden tiara on her brow.

Harper finally took in her surroundings, no longer overcome with the shock of meeting random science-fiction characters; no, a different shock began to overcome her. She was surrounded by trees, in a forest, more green and vibrant than any she'd seen before. The metallic scent of recent rain flavored the cool, crisp air. She breathed deeply, relishing the freshness of the place. Han and Leia sat on thrones made from the interwoven branches of a white wood; vines crept up along the edges, decorating the naturally ornate furniture with deep greens. Somewhere a stream bubbled, and Harper remembered how thirsty she'd been.

"You are not dead," Han said. "Nor are you locked up somewhere." Golden flowers began to sprout from their thrones. "We have brought you to Arda, to save this world."

The thing that really bothered Harper about all this was that she'd never a particularly creative person. Her brother was always the one with the imagination. While Harper read the classics he read fantasy, and while she was content with the ending of a book, Cal went on for days with countless "what-ifs." Cal invented things. Harper put things to their intended use. In fact, she only saw Star Wars because her brother insisted. The most imaginative she'd ever been was that time in high school when they'd smoked pot and listened to Dark Side of the Moon while watching The Wizard of Oz. Maybe she was tripping on some kind of desert spore/mold/hallucinogenic plant-thing. Or maybe the snake bit her, or a scorpion, or some kind of spider and the venom was taking its toll. Maybe her men weren't dead at all.

"They are dead," Leia said. "But you, young one, are still alive, and quite well. You were not my first choice for this task, for although you are cunning and beautiful you do not possess a great love of trees and flowers and you are…somewhat vain." Harper winced, remembering the cactus her mother bought and she killed in a matter of two weeks. No, Harper Leonard did not have a green thumb. As for being vain…Harper didn't know what the princess was talking about. "But," Leia continued. "You are also quite valiant and level-headed. My husband is especially impressed with your resolve and self-discipline." Han nodded as his wife spoke. "Ultimately, however, you were our only choice, for Eru gave us permission to bring forth only one, and He greatly limited our options."

They looked at her as if they expected her to say something.

Gratitude was likely due, but Harper had more important things to worry about. "Who are you," she asked. "And what's this about saving the world?"

"I am Oromë," Han answered. "And this is my wife Vána. We are Vala. The spirit of the warrior is strong in you, Harper, daughter of Vidalia; this is why we have chosen you to save Middle-Earth."

Harper's gut said curtsey, and curtsey she did. "Thank you," she said, trying to make sure it didn't sound sarcastic or like a question. "What is Middle-Earth and how am I supposed to save it? Maybe y'all got the wrong Leonard, my brother now, he's a Navy SEAL. Saving the free world is what he does best. I'm just an interpreter."

Leia, _V_á_na_, giggled like a ten-year-old school girl. "Middle-Earth is Arda," she said. _Oh, that explains it, _Harper thought. "And yes, your brother is a brave man but his destiny lies elsewhere." Leia's face became grim, sullen, as if there'd never been anything to giggle about and never would be again. "A great evil brews in this world. Sauron, the dark lord, has brought a terrible man to these lands. He will wreck havoc. He will bring with him knowledge for destruction beyond the likes of which anyone in Arda could comprehend, not even the Eldar."

Oromë picked up the cryptic explanation. "We do not like to interfere but Morgorth has over-stepped his bounds by bringing this human, and so we have brought you. Seek the Golden Lord, stay with him for but a year, then make for the Golden Wood, there your destiny will unfold. At all times be wary, for servants of the dark lord take many forms and he is seeking you."

"Will he try to turn me to the dark side?" Harper spoke before thinking. This was obviously very serious shit.

"Yes," Han said. "He will try to use you for his own purposes."

And in the blink of an eye they were gone.

* * *

They'd just gotten in from their vacation in Greece when the knocking started, a harsh sound ringing throughout the foyer. As soon as he heard it Tripp felt heavy with dread and all he could think about was his grandmother's funeral, when he was five, and he felt heavy, and if he'd peaked over the side of that coffin she'd have come to life and grabbed him. _I'm taking you with me Charles._

He shuddered with fear, walking toward the front door- _only strangers use the front door_- when it occurred to him that perhaps something had happened to one of his children. But Tripp pushed the thought aside; Harper and Cal were okay, they _had _to be. Children didn't die before their parents.

He opened the door to find a man on his porch, standing tall and straight amidst intimidating Corinthian columns. A nondescript, black sedan idled on the street. He knew right away the man wasn't Navy, no, Tripp knew an Air Force uniform when he saw one. His little girl wore one. "Vidalia," he called to his wife, the dread weighing him down so much he didn't think he could stand without her. _What's happened to my little girl?_

"Doctor Leonard," the man said; his voice was deep and stern, dashed with sadness. "I'm General Jack Collins, may I come inside sir?"

Tripp gulped. He tried to say _yes of course_, but nothing came from his lips; he could only nod and lead the General into his Water Street mansion. They walked into the sitting room; portraits of long dead ancestors and race horses decorated the walls. _Dead like my little girl,_ he thought. "Vidalia," he called again, longing for his wife's reassuring touch, wishing he possessed half of her calm resolve, the same resolve which had passed down to his children.

Tripp awkwardly scratched the back of his head. He never knew what to do with officers. Long ago his forefather's had gone to war, reigning victorious over the British, and then succumbing to the Yankees, happy to have survived both wars with fortune intact. That was the last time any Leonard became a soldier; they turned to doctors and lawyers instead, but his wife…his wife was a military brat, daughter of Colonel Sonny Hatley _goddamnit_, she'd know what to do, what to say, how to act when the General told them their daughter was dead.

His little girl, beautiful Harper…Vidalia named her. He would have been happy to let her name both their children had his mother not been so insistent. _You're a Leonard, Charles. You will not marry some poor girl from Georgia. Why don't you call up that nice Pickney girl? You want your children's blood blue, don't you?_ The first boy, he warned his wife on their wedding day, would have to be Charles Adams Leonard IV or there would be hell to pay, but Harper came first, 15 minutes before her brother, with a head full of dark, curly hair. His wife had a thing for strong women, and she wanted her daughter to be the strongest of all. _She'll be President someday._ So it was Harper after Harper Lee, acclaimed Southern author. _She'll be beautiful; she'll break hearts._ And so it was Annabelle, after Poe's inspiration, his greatest poem, in Vidalia's mind, and written in The Holy City. And now his beautiful little girl was dead.

"What's wrong, Tripp?" Vidalia strode into the room, her voice falling when she saw the General. "General," she said. "How nice to have you, Vidalia Leonard." Collins stood and shook his wife's hand. Her face had already turned ashen.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news," he said; Tripp saw him bite his lower lip. "You might want to sit down." _Your daughter is dead._

Tripp locked eyes with his wife. She knew, as he did, exactly what was about to happen. They sat on a loveseat that'd been in his family for at least three generations. "There has been an incident. Your daughter, Captain Leonard, was returning to base from a routine mission when the helicopter she was on encountered mechanical problems. The copter went down. The other men on board were killed; their bodies have been recovered but your daughter is nowhere to be found. One man was pulled from the wreckage before support arrived. We believe she survived the crash and has been taken by hostile forces."

The General stopped talking, letting the news sink in. Beside of Tripp Vidalia trembled; he longed to reach out and hold her but he knew better, she wouldn't want such a display in front of a General.

_Your little girl is dead. Your princess, your Harper, your mother was right, you should never have let her pursue the military. You should never have let your father-in-law near your children, then they'd both be safe at home, married to more rich, blue-blooded people._

"Captured?" Vidalia's voice sounded weak. "But she was in Afghanistan." The General nodded and the implications hit Tripp. His little girl was worse than dead; she was being tortured, raped, the video published to the internet. Fox News would be calling him up, wanting interviews, praising their courage and sacrifice to the country. "Thank you for coming in person, General." Somehow his wife still managed to be polite.

"It was the least I could do," Collins said. "The base is so close. You have the full support of the United States military. Your daughter is a hero. We will find her. And we've contacted your son. He'll be calling around 19…uh 7 this evening."

The rest of the General's visit went by in a blur, all Tripp could think of was the horrible things happening to his little girl, and if she did survive, if they did find her before some terrorist cut through her throat with a dull knife, what kind of life would she have? Would she ever be right, happy, living with that kind of trauma? He'd treated 'Nam vets before, their lives forever in ruins due to the atrocities they saw. She was a translator. She was supposed to stay in the Green Zone. Tripp didn't even think she'd had any real combat training, certainly nothing like what Cal had gone through, how could she survive?

He didn't hear the phone ring, promptly at seven o'clock. His children were always punctual. "Tripp," Vidalia broke him from his malevolent reverie. "Cal's on the phone, honey." Her eyes were puffy and swollen, blood shot. For the first time since he'd met her she looked like an old woman; he saw the wrinkles on her face, the gray hair, the cataracts she denied clouding her brown eyes. Tripp embraced her, relishing the warm feeling of her hands around his back. "Oh Tripp, what are we going to do?" Her tears soaked through his over-priced shirt.

Now he had to be strong. "We'll get through this, darling, one step at a time. Come on, I know Cal won't have long to talk." They walked into his office and turned on the speaker-phone. "Cal," Tripp said. "It's your father. We're both here now."

"_She's alive," _Cal practically shouted. "_She's alive and she's fine. I can feel it. I'd know if something was wrong with her. Remember that day when we were fourteen? I knew where to find her. I knew she was still alive. Remember when I broke my arm? Harper knew. I know mom and dad. I know."_

"Cal," but Tripp choked on the words.

_Men aren't supposed to cry. _

_Your little girl is gone_.

"_You have to believe me. Mom, Dad, I know it doesn't make sense but she's okay, she's just…she's not here anymore. I…I can't explain it. I just know."_


	3. Chapter 3

"Section 8 is a crap shoot," she said to no one, for there was no one to hear her. "Goddamn talking sand pits. Goddamn talking snakes. Goddamn Star Wars!" If she'd been a lover of green things she might have walked in total wonder of the place, surrounded by magnificent trees, some never seen on Earth. But Harper didn't know a beech from a chestnut; she'd never paid much attention to that sort of thing and she didn't now. Plants were plants, to her they all looked the same. There were only two trees for which she held any kind of affection, the Palmetto, and the Live Oak, Charleston trees. "What in the hell is a Vala anyway?"

She followed the stream that flowed past what she dubbed the throne room of Han and Leia, now nothing more than a small opening in the forest, covered in golden flowers, serenaded by countless birds. She'd planned on staying there until someone in the real world shocked the sanity back into her, but the pollen from all those flowers triggered her allergies. After an epic sneezing fit she decided to move on.

Her gut rumbled with hunger. The pain in her knee increased with every step. The only thing she could do was focus on finding Section 8 civilization and the best way to do that was follow running water.

Harper glanced at her over-sized diver's watch. It stopped at 1400. She'd just had the damn battery replaced too. At least her guns still worked, or the Beretta anyway. She fired it into the air after walking for an hour (or what she felt had been an hour). A woman needed to be able to protect herself and in all likelihood, night would be very dark in Section 8 Land. Her mini-flashlight hadn't worked either, but she did have a Zippo lighter that proudly displayed the Stars and Bars and two Cuban cigars she'd been saving for a special occasion- like seeing her brother in the Green Zone, or exposing and disposing of a band of terrorists. Already the forest began to darken as the scattered rays of sunlight that filtered through the trees diminished. She couldn't go much further anyway.

Every fall the Colonel took them camping up-state. Survival training, he called it. They were forced to leave behind the luxuries and commodities of their ante-bellum home and live off the land-or something like that. They woke up at 0400 and climbed into his old jeep-made when a jeep was a jeep-taking nothing with them but a couple pistols, knives, and a compass. Her brother always excelled during these adventures, his resourcefulness far beyond Harper. A part of her thought they'd always be together, that she could always rely on him to be strong where she was weak. In retrospect she should have paid more attention to their grandfather's stories. He went on and on about what to do and what to eat, how to catch a fish with your bare hands, how to build a lean-to, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum. Now the Colonel was dead, buried just outside of Ft. Benning, Georgia, set into the ground with a 21 gun salute, and Cal was shooting Al-Qaeda bastards in Afghanistan. No one could help her.

She picked a dry spot along the bank of the stream, shaded by some kind of gigantic tree, and gathered what kindling she could. Most of the twigs and fallen branches she came across were damp, but when it came to starting a fire her skills far surpassed her brother's. Even when the Colonel couldn't get a spark Harper had been able to start a roaring blaze.

By the time she got the fire going darkness had fallen. Harper leaned back against the towering tree and closed her eyes, listening to the crackling wood, buzzing insects, straining to hear whatever else might be roaming the woods.

Her thoughts turned toward her parents. They'd be heartbroken, no matter what. Either she was dead and making her way through Purgatory sans Virgil, absolutely crazy locked up in a _facility_, or she really was in another world, in which case, she was missing in the real world and her parents would assume the worst. They knew what happened to women POWs.

The scene played out in her mind. Given the gravity of the situation, five men dead, three of them Special Operations Command, the C/O presumably taken by hostile forces, they'd send a high-ranking officer from the base in Summerville, maybe even a General. He'd knock on the front door, _only strangers use the front door_, ask to be let inside and then he'd tell them. Her mother would stay strong in front of him, _cookies? coffee?, _always the perfect hostess, but when he left she'd break down in her husband's arms. Her father would try to fight the tears, _men aren't supposed to cry_, but he'd succumb as well.

And Cal…he'd know she was still alive, or dead, whatever the case might be. They'd contact him out in the middle of Afghanistan and inform him of the copter incident. He found her when she was fourteen. He couldn't find her in Section 8 Land, but he'd still know, and he'd still try.

She thought about Charleston, The Holy City, her home. If only she hadn't been so damn competitive, so jealous of her _little_ brother. She didn't want him to have something she couldn't. So she woke up with him before dawn on those hot, sticky summer mornings, and they'd run all over the peninsula, sweat soaking through their t-shirts, burning their eyes, until finally they'd collapse on the front porch, and wait for the Colonel to storm out the door shouting about _those goddamn Nazi sonsabithces, too slow, too slow! _She trained because she didn't want Cal to have that to himself, because she was a selfish, self-centered little bitch, and before she knew it she was being groomed to be an officer while leading the Lady Falcons to victory, far away from her brother at Annapolis, and far away from her parents in beautiful Charleston.

It wasn't really what she wanted. She wanted to go pro, but even her mother had raised her eyebrows in skepticism at that idea and said, _is that what you really want to do, Harper? You're so smart, sweetie, you could be president._ She didn't want to be president of anything. She wanted to play basketball. She'd still be safe at home in Charleston, not starving in some forest in Section 8 Land, sent on a quest to save the Section 8 World by Han Solo and Princess Leia, if only she'd let her brother have his military career and stuck to basketball.

_Get real, Harper, how many seasons do you think you'd have lasted? How many more surgeries on that knee of yours? Remember how it twisted, how the tendon tore, remember the pain? And what would you have done after that, a courtroom interpreter maybe? How boring, sitting in that hot building all day, translating the pleas of illegals who've been caught driving without a license for the fifth time that month._

Her rational mind was right, and besides, at Colorado Springs they hadn't cared about what she looked like, or that her father was blue-blooded Dr. Tripp Leonard from old money South of Broad. They treated her just like everyone else and she still excelled. It wasn't just her name or her looks. It was _her._ They took a talent she barely knew she had and nurtured it, nourishing her aptitude for words by immersing her in exotic tongues. She loved it. She put languages to their intended uses and she was good, too good maybe. Maybe that was why she'd been deployed. The orders came a mere week after she re-upped, and even Cal, already in Afghanistan, had been surprised. The Green Zone was a far cry from the base in Aviano, where she'd spent two years enjoying the Italian scenery, but it wasn't that bad, in fact, she had some good times there. The work was easy enough; she was really nothing more than a glorified analyst. Then they started sending her on a couple recon missions with the Spec Ops guys and she finally felt like a real soldier. Then they sent her to Afghanistan. The men respected her, protected her with their lives.

In the end she failed them.

Harper added some wood to the fire. She was tired, so tired; her eyelids felt heavy, her body weak. But her mind still wheeled from the events of the day and every time she began to drift off to sleep a dark voice would whisper into her ear, _they're dead because of you._ "It wasn't my fault."

"Look at what you did to me, _Captain_." Stew sat across from her, warming charred hands by the fire. Eschar dripped off his arms. The skin on his face was completely gone, blackened muscles and cheek bones moved as what had once been his lips twisted up into a sick grin. "Couldn't even grant a man his dying wish, what kind of evil bitch are you? You knew help wouldn't get there in time. You could have let me die peacefully, instead you watched me suffer. You can't imagine the pain you put me through, and for what? To save your career, so you wouldn't look bad. You're nothing but a selfish little cunt, yelling at a dying man."

"No," she whispered. "You're not real, Stew, and if you are…this is…this is insubordination! It wasn't my fault. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"We're dead because of you, coward!"

"No, shut-up, you're not real. Just shut-up." _Coward, run away like a silly little girl, run and hide Harper, because he's coming for you._ "Shut up." _How many more people are going to die because of you?_ "SHUT UP!"

Stew was gone. The fire had died down to smoking embers. It was a dream, just a dream, a nightmare. Only she couldn't crawl into bed with her parents, or sneak into Cal's room and talk to him till dawn. She was still alone.

Tears streamed down her cheeks; it didn't matter anymore, Nana'd been dead for years, and there was no one in Section 8 Land to see her cry.

For five days and six nights Harper trudged on, following the little stream. On the second day she came across a shallow pool, where fish swam in abundance. There were so many crowded together that it was almost too easy for her to plunge her knife into their soft bodies. She skewered them onto sticks and roasted them over the fire. _Roasting them like you roasted me,_ Stew spat, and she threw up her first bite of burnt fish skin.

Stew had become her constant companion; his rotting corpse walked beside her day and night, whispering into her ear. One of his eyeballs had fallen out.

She couldn't sleep. For an hour or two in the afternoon she'd drift off, her dreams filled with the smell of burning flesh. In one she was eating something, some kind of scorched meat; it was disgusting but she couldn't get enough. She ate greedily, like a dog, licking her chops and her fingers for every morsel. _Compliments of Lamb Chop,_ Stew told her. She drew back from the horrid meal finally seeing it for what it was-a man's arm. The next fifteen minutes she spent dry heaving.

Harper stumbled around in a daze. _You're going to die, Harper._ She stopped trying to find food, stopped praying that someone in the real world would inject her with a miracle drug that would make everything go away. _He's coming for you._ Her mind could no longer distinguish between dream and reality. The dark figures trampling through the woods were the other men she killed, joining Stew in her torture.

This wasn't Purgatory. This was Hell.

That's why even though she heard the monsters coming up to her pitiful excuse of a camp, she did nothing to defend herself. By the time Harper realized the danger a branch crashed down upon her skull.

"Umpda sha kalp, ha." Gibberish, complete nonsense. "Hen hala." The voices were loud, angry. "Hak soot!" Maybe she'd been taken by Jabba-The-Hut. "Nan tala fut."

Harper's head pounded; her shoulders burned, stretched and contorted behind her back; rope tore into the skin of her wrists. She looked through her eyelashes, petrified of being caught awake and yet compelled to see, like a bad crash on the interstate, she _had_ to look.

Two tall, burly men stood in front of her, they seemed to be arguing over something. Only…they weren't men. They were…they were something else. Hair covered their bodies, what skin she could see in the dim light of the fire looked like crinkled, brown paper bags. What, for Christ's sake, _were_ they?

_Once upon a time there were three billy goats, who were to go up to the hillside and make themselves fat, and the name of all three was "Gruff."_ The memory and her mother's voice filled her head. Harper didn't like this story. She begged their mother to read something else, but it was Cal's turn to pick. _On the way up was a bridge over a cascading stream they had to cross; and under the bridge lived a great ugly troll, with eyes as big as saucers, and a nose as long as a poker_. Trolls didn't exist.

Their mother showed them the pictures when she finished reading a page and the troll's dead black eyes stared at Harper with unsettling resolve. _I'm going to eat you, Harper._ She shivered and begged their mother. _Why can't we read about The Swamp Fox again, mom?_ She whined, threatened a hissy-fit, but Cal was unrelenting; he wanted to hear about his goddamn trolls.

"They're going to gobble you up, Harper_,"_ Stew laughed from behind her. Trolls didn't exist. "But that's what they are, aren't they, Cap? You knew that as soon as you looked at them though, didn't you?"

She bit her tongue to keep from screaming.

"_What the fuck is wrong with you, soldier?" _Now the Colonel stood beside her, hands behind his back, decked out in dress blues-the uniform he'd been buried in. "_I didn't train some goddamn pansy, some wuss, is that what you've become, soldier? What the fuck did they do you at that goddamn Air Force Academy? You've got to save the world! Now quit your crying and your belly-aching, people are counting on you. Stop being so selfish. My granddaughter is better than this."_

Harper almost smiled; leave it to the Colonel to be blunt, a most welcome change in a world of cryptic everything. Had those Nazi _sonsabitches_ captured Sonny Hatley he wouldn't have given up. He would have tried anything to escape and take down as many as he could.

"Well, come along!" she said to herself. "I've got two spears, and I'll poke your eyeballs out your ears; I've got besides two curling-stones, and I'll crush you to bits, body and bones!"1

She moved her arms as much as she could, finding that with only excruciating pain, she could reach the sheath of her SPN24 Survival Knife (made in the USA). Her 9mm should have been holstered on her left hip, but its reassuring weight was noticeably lacking. Her Sig was also MIA. That left her with the Smith & Wesson, which she could feel remained in its rightful place. Harper thanked God and The Force that the trolls had failed to discover her knife and revolver.

The sharp metal cut into the flesh of her wrist as well as the rope. "Tsk, tsk_,"_ Stew said. "You've slit those pretty little wrists. Better hope you bleed to death before the trolls eat you." He laughed. Hot, sticky blood ran down her fingers, but she kept her grip on the blade.

Harper's head throbbed with pain. She moved the knife methodically, back-and-forth, short, mini-strokes. The trolls continued to speak in their Jabba-The-Hut language, thankfully oblivious to her escape efforts. She had a feeling the topic of their conversation was her.

At long last the rope fibers gave way. In an awkward, jerky motion she drew her revolver. Two shots rang out in the night, the deafening sound alien to the quiet, forest world. Head-shots, the trolls went down with dull thuds. She expected them to rise like any villain in any mediocre slasher flick, but they remained down.

"Well that was anti-climatic," Stew commented.

"The advantages of modern technology," she stated simply, and proceeded to recover her firearms. The trolls had also taken her dog tags and watch; she found both items hanging from the branch of a near-by tree. Harper only took what was hers. She didn't want the trolls' ill-gotten plunder and, she didn't have time. More likely than not, the gun shots would alert any other Section 8 monsters to her location.


	4. Chapter 4

Maybe it was the loss of blood-Harper hadn't thought the cuts on her wrists were that deep, and she'd bound them as well as she could, yet blood still seeped through her makeshift bandages-or maybe the fact that the trees had become less dense, and sunlight shone through in abundance; or maybe it was the concussion she surely suffered from that bump-on-the-head; whatever the reason, Harper felt giddy.

"There's no place like Section 8 Land in the springtime," Harper said to Stew, who'd been growing increasingly quiet. The corpse didn't answer. "Stewball? Stew Ball was a race horse, you know. He didn't drink water. He only drank wine. Kind of like me when I was in high school, before some jackass at Colorado Springs introduced me to whiskey." Silence. "Stew? You settled down?" Harper at laughed this. She laughed hard. "All my rowdy friends have settled down!! Hahaha, and nobody wants to get drunk and get loud…"

Harper came to a sudden halt, her path blocked by the tip of an arrow. In front of her stood a very grim-faced man; dressed in a tunic and…_leggings_ the man held a bow and arrow, pointed straight at her head. His hair was dark, black actually, and long; his eyes were gray. He possessed a slender frame, steady hands, and…_pointy ears_?

Overall, he looked pissed.

Harper stood perfectly still. _Well, fuck me,_ she thought, _Section 8 Land just keeps getting better. I've been ambushed by Robin Hood and his Merry Band of Thieves. The Princess could have warned me. How the hell am I supposed to get out of this?_ Her vision began to blur. The world began to spin. "Scrawny little thing," she didn't mean to say it aloud.

Just then something hit her from behind. She couldn't be sure, but it felt a lot like a freight train. Funny, she hadn't heard one coming. For the second time in her Section 8 visit her arms were twisted behind her back. Her face was shoved into the dirt. The last thing she registered was the taste of blood.

* * *

"We have no choice, we must kill it."

"_Her_," the other twin snapped. "For all we know she is an innocent. Look at her, Brother. She is wasted away and injured. She needs the help of our father."

"It had to be she, who killed the trolls. Her tracks are unique." Glorfindel interjected. "And the trolls' wounds were unlike anything I have seen before," the elf Lord paused for moment, having always been loath to end a sentence in a preposition, "and I am very old." He then briefly contemplated whether or not before was actually a preposition; deciding that it was, his thoughts turned to more pressing matters. "I sense darkness surrounding her, and yet, light within her."

"Some would say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend," Elladan asserted.

"That is not always necessarily true," Elrohir countered. "Look at her garb, it is strange, as well as her language. I do not wish to encounter the weapon which slew those trolls, and I certainly do not seek to take such a weapon into our father's house."

"What say you, Lord Glorfindel?" They asked in unison, looking at him with expectation, while the human girl spat up blood.

_What say you, Lord Glorfindel?_ How many times had he been asked that question? Two occasions came to mind, one long, long ago, in a hidden a city. It had not been wrong to admit Tuor into in the city, though one might say, it ultimately led to destruction. The other time was more recent, when his greatest friends turned to him with expectation, as if he should know every answer. _What say you, Lord Glorfindel? Should Celebrian make the journey to her mother's realm? _Why in the name of Eru they'd sought him out to settle their debate he'd never know, and he'd always regret. The Valar might have brought him back from the halls of Mandos, but they did not impart unto him their foresight, and he was anything but divine.

He looked at the girl. She wore strangely colored trousers and a matching tunic which seemed designed to blend in to her surroundings. They found a knife on her, and metal objects, the likes of which they'd never seen before…and did not understand. There was a gash on her scalp and deep cuts on her wrists, which bled profusely. Her face was sullen, strained. She looked as if she hadn't eaten or slept in over a week. Her hair was tangled with blood and filth, matted down to her head and she smelled positively atrocious.

It'd been a hundred years since Celebrian sailed. The grief of her husband, children, and friends had not subdued. Darkness crept into the world, even touching the outskirts of fair Imaldris. This woman was strange indeed and certainly not to be trusted. And yet, perhaps, she _was_ innocent, a lost traveler from foreign lands, in need of healing and shelter. If they brought her to The Last Homely House she could be guarded. Certainly she was too weak in her current condition to do any harm. Elrond, good soul that he was, wouldn't want them to leave her to die. And healing her could prove a positive distraction.

"We will take her to your father's house," he said. "Lord Elrond would not wish us to leave her in the wilderness to die."

They placed the girl on Elladan's mare and traveled in silence. He thought of Ondolindë, Gondolin, Gondsot, Gwarestrin; the many names ran through his head, drilled into him by none other than King Turgon, his kin, whom he followed to the bitter end, who had delighted in choosing a name for the city.

Could she be another Tuor? Or was she more like Maeglin, whom they doted upon in his youth, trying desperately to provide him with normalcy, to compensate for the trauma he suffered at the death of his father and mother? Glorfindel's heart had broken when he learned of Maeglin's treason, although, having always been endeared to Idril, and respectful of her intuition, it had not been a complete surprise. They warned the King, but Maeglin had them all fooled. Unstable, yes, Glorfindel had easily seen that, but none, save perhaps Idril, thought Maeglin capable of…of willingly offering himself to Morgoth, of betraying his people, his King-who'd taken him in and treated him like a son-to their deaths.

He would watch her carefully, guard her with weapons, and pray to the Valar for guidance. She would not have the chance to betray them, should she ever have the inclination; and if she was an innocent, an ally against the enemy, then she would be treated as such. Glorfindel would take full responsibility for the girl.


	5. Chapter 5 The King of Elfland

_They sought her east, they sought her west,  
They sought her up and down,  
And woe were the hearts of those brethren,  
For she was not to be found._

_So at last her eldest brother went to the Warlock Merlin and told him all the case, and asked him if he knew where Burd Ellen was. 'The fair Burd Ellen,' said the Warlock Merlin, 'must have been carried off by the fairies, because she went round the church "widershins"--the opposite way to the sun. She is now in the Dark Tower of the King of Elfland; it would take the boldest knight in Christendom to bring her back.'_

_'If it is, possible to bring her back,' said her brother, 'I'll do it, or perish in the attempt.'_

He stared at the small church, head cocked to the side. A cool breeze blew through his dirty-blonde hair.

_She went 'round the church widershins…_

In three hours he'd be back on a plane, heading home to console his grieving parents. His sister had been missing for over a week. Everyone assumed the worst. They didn't believe him when he said she was alive. When he told Willy that-that his sister was alive she just wasn't in this world anymore-the younger man had looked at him only with pity. And Cal realized how it sounded, like mad denial, and he'd stopped talking about it.

But he remembered. He remembered their childhood, training with the Colonel, speaking in their secret language which-he had to admit-Harper created, consoling each other over broken relationships-ended friendships, learning to drive, lying to their parents to keep the other out of trouble.

He remembered breaking his arm playing football in sixth grade. He overheard their parents talking while he waited for an x-ray. Their father had been with Harper at basketball practice, when she stopped in the middle of the court, grabbed her arm and started to cry. _I didn't know what was wrong,_ their father told their mother, _she seemed fine. I told her 'big girls don't cry' and she calmed down. Then she told me something was wrong with Cal._

He remembered that day at Annapolis. He'd slipped off campus to meet a girl from St John's. They snuck into her dorm room. He'd just gotten her out of a black, lacy bra when his knee seized with pain, and he'd known immediately that something had happened to his sister.

He remembered when they were fourteen. When the Colonel was still alive and he'd drive them out to IOP every morning after their run for a swim. When he suddenly realized his sister was no longer behind him, nowhere to be found…but he knew where to find her.

He couldn't find her now. She'd gone 'round the church, widershins. The King of Elfland had her.

Cal glanced up at the sun. The Mannheim church faced north. He took a step forward. _Opposite direction of the sun…_

His parents needed him. He had to go home.

Cal took two more steps and stopped.

Harper was alive. She was tough. She'd always been quicker on the drawl than him, better with a pistol overall. She did his Latin homework in school, and he did her chemistry. It amazed everyone with how quickly she could pick up a language. She had the skills. She could survive in Elfland. The Colonel taught her just as he'd taught Cal.

She used to tell him he'd been adopted, and they'd beaten the shit out of each other on the playground at school one day because of it. The principal sat them in his office and made them wait for their mother. They'd forgiven each other by the time she got there and both were grounded for a week.

Harper wanted to learn how to play the guitar. _My name is Harper for Chrissake. It's required that I play something._ Their father bought her a cheap Yamaha and their mother took her to lessons twice a week. It lasted for about three months, and then lessons interfered with basketball so Harper gave it up. She'd learned several songs though, one of which he'd been humming all day.

"How I wish you were here," he mumbled.

Harper also went through a ballet phase. She was terrible. Cal laughed aloud just thinking about it. At that point, they were maybe eleven-years-old; he'd realized he'd never be taller than his sister. And she was having a hard time not tripping over herself. The kids at school called her Big Bird, a nickname she much preferred to the one bestowed upon her at Colorado Springs-Skipper. She begged their parents to sign her up for ballet, to improve her balance on the court. Ballet lessons lasted almost a year. They videotaped her one recital and watched it whenever anyone was in need of a good laugh. Harper could be seen looking to her fellow dancers, steps behind, trying to catch-up. She didn't care about ballet anyway, she did it for basketball, and no one laughed at her on the court.

Cal sighed. His sister loved the sport, and at six feet tall, she'd been built for it. From the first time she held a ball she wanted to be a professional basketball player, better than Michael Jordan. Life had taken her somewhere else entirely.

Memories of his beloved twin continued to besiege him, until at last he took a deep breath and walked around the church counter-clockwise.

Nothing happened.

* * *

She thrashed about wildly, crying out in that strange, choppy language. He watched in silent fascination.

They'd cleaned her up as well as they could, wiping the blood and filth from her face with wet cloths. Still she was a complete mess, the linens of her bed soiled as soon as they laid her down. Elrond did not want her in the infirmary. They took her to a private room, slightly isolated from the other inhabitants. It was a room Glorfindel tended to avoid; he had no reason to go there anyway, but on the wall opposite the bed hung a large tapestry, depicting himself, battling that _balrog_ to his death. Elrond had originally displayed it in the Hall of Fire. Glorfindel could not look at it without thinking of Ecthelion, and wondering why he'd been chosen to return and not the Lord of the Fountain. So he'd taken it down one day and relocated it to this room.

Sometimes they sang songs about him. He could hear their laments throughout the open corridors, songs Idril and Eärendil surely sang long ago. It seemed wrong to him, that his Imaldris compatriots lamented his death, when he was very much alive. Others were more deserving, Ecthelion, Turgon, Tuor, and all the others that were lost, falling in defense of their King and home.

The girl's eyes flew open, meeting his for the briefest of moments. Her eyes were a dark brown, almost black, filled with intensity, rage, and…The spell broke. Her eyes snapped shut. She turned on her side and vomited, splattering Elrond with bile. The Peredhel chanted over her and the girl finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"It is good that you brought her to me, my friend," Elrond said, ignoring the mess on his robes. "I do not believe she would have survived much longer. But I am concerned with her presence as well, for we do not know her purpose."

Glorfindel nodded. "I sense no evil in her," he said, "only anger. Some misfortune has befallen her. I take full responsibility for her. I will guard her night and day. No tragedy will come of this. We will not be betrayed by our good intentions."

"I agree, but feel free to enlist the aid of my sons. She shall be confined to this room for quite some time. In fact, I implore you, have Elladan and Elrohir take turns with you. I know how much you dislike the décor in here." Elrond grinned, _smirked_ really, and continued. "I will heal her as best I can. More than anything, she needs rest and a light meal when she awakes. I will make-up a potion that should help her sleep easily. The poor child is plagued by nightmares."

Glorfindel watched Elrond leave and proceeded to make himself comfortable on a chair by the girl's bed, or try to anyway. He wiggled about desperately, and then remembered. The chair had been in his study. Everyone complained about it. He had often wondered why one in his study would choose to stand rather than take a seat in his lovely oaken chair. So one day Glorfindel sat in it himself and promptly relocated it to…this room.

The golden haired lord sighed. He removed himself from the chair and sat on the floor, propped up against the wall. The girl was in his direct line-of-vision but out of the corner of his eye he could see that damn tapestry.

_He heard water splashing. White walls surrounded him, beyond them, mountains. _

Gondolin.

_Somewhere a flute played softly, a tune that seemed so familiar, yet he could not place. The splashing came from The Fountain of the King; Glofindel walked toward it silently. The water itself was silver. Looking down into the Fountain, he was horrified to find the body of one of his greatest friends. Fair Ecthelion stared up at him, clad in shining armor, surrounded by silver. His face was just as Glorfindel remembered, strong, unwavering, and youthful. His mouth began to move, but Glorfindel could not make out the words_.

* * *

She woke up feeling warm, comfortable, and rested, like she'd spent the night in her bed at home. Maybe she had. Maybe it was all a dream, a horrible nightmare. She never joined the Air Force. Cal never joined the Navy; he was in his room across the hall, just fifty feet away from their parents.

Her heart sped up.

Home, Harper was home. Mom would be cooking shrimp 'n grits downstairs, and Stewball, Fonzi, Smitty…just doomed figments of her imagination. She drew a deep breath and smelled their mother's cooking.

_Wake up and smell the coffee!_ That little voice in the back of her head, the voice that sounded just like the Colonel, the voice she didn't want to hear, spoke. _You've been captured you twit! Open your eyes a get a handle on your goddamn surroundings!_

Harper opened her eyes.

A man with long blonde hair sat beside her. His eyes locked into hers and she was lost, drowning in ancient, turbulent blue pools. He was beautiful and he judged her. Fit or unfit, he saw every bad act, every indiscretion, how she cheated on a spelling test in first grade; how she beat the shit out of Holly Johnson for breaking Cal's heart in middle school; he saw the things she did with Thurston Rutledge the night of senior prom, in his father's Astin-Martin, parked by the battery-the shifter left a bruise on her thigh…He saw her smoking pot with Cal and his friends, their last act of rebellion before Uncle Sam claimed them, while listening to Dark Side of the Moon and watching The Wizard of Oz. _They really do line up! _ She felt like telling him, but there was no need for explanations. She wasn't worthy of heaven. He saw the men who were dead because of her, the way she treated Stew before he died.

His eyes finally broke contact and he spoke to her, in a warm, deep baritone flavored by a hidden edge. _I really must be dead_, she thought. His language was melodic, flowing like a lullaby mothers sing to soothe their children into sleep. It sounded like nothing she'd heard before…and she knew a thing or two about languages.

He seemed to be waiting for her to say something. Harper shook her head.

Had she been captured? She found it hard to believe that this…being acted in collusion with those trolls.

His face was youthful, masculine, jaw chiseled, nose Roman. He was tall. She couldn't judge his exact height as he was still seated, but she guessed he was at least half a foot taller than herself. His frame was imposing, shoulders broad, much more substantial than Robin Hood.

_Robin Hood_, she remembered. Yes, she had been captured; perhaps by the enemy of her enemy; perhaps by ally forces…perhaps by something else entirely.

He was looking at her again, a somewhat quizzical expression on his fair face, hardened by something just below the surface.

Harper felt herself blush, realizing that her own appearance must have been truly appalling. She hadn't bathed in so long…days, weeks…How long had she been lost in Section 8 Hell? How long had she been unconscious in Sherwood Forest? Her hair was a greasy mess of tangles, her breath rancid, her body odor truly offensive. Having always taken pride in her appearance, Harper felt humiliated before him.

She turned her attention to the room. _Get a grip on your surroundings_. Sunlight filled the space, a good 500 sq. feet, flowing in from three windows placed around the square room. There was no glass in the windows; vines grew through them, decorating the wooden walls with ivy. She could see trees growing close to the windows on the walls to her left and behind her bed, but she doubted escape would be easy. The frame of her bed was made from a red wood; it looked expensive, like something out of her father's Alaskan hunting lodge. Nature had been incorporated into the entire room, stone, wood, and leaves, except the wall opposite her bed, which was adorned by a large tapestry, depicting an angel battling a demon.

_It's you_, she thought, looking at her guard. He was studying her again, now with a grim expression. She dared not meet his eyes.

They both waited in silence.

Finally Harper decided she could no longer take his scrutinizing gaze, and that she might as well be the one to break the ice. Captive or not, she'd been treated well, and it just wasn't in her Southern nature to be impolite.

She pulled herself up as well as she could-her body was sore all over-and held out a hand to him. "Harper," she said, using her other hand to point to herself.

He looked at her outstretched hand a bit incredulously but mimicked the gesture, holding his out to her. "Glor-fin-del," he introduced himself slowly.

Harper took his hand in her own and shook it lightly. "Glorfindel," she repeated, wondering what on Earth it meant.

His face brightened somewhat and he nodded. "Hah-pah," he said, now shaking her hand with enthusiasm.

Harper smiled. "Har-per," she said again, this time eliminating her unequivocal, blue-blooded, Charlestonian drawl.

"Harper," he got it right and she smiled approvingly. He finally let go of her hand. Glorfindel stood-up. She saw she'd been an inch or two off regarding his height; he was probably closer to 6-7. He said something to her and walked out of the room, re-entering in a matter of seconds.

It wasn't long before another tall man with pointy ears came into her room. He wasn't as tall as Glorfindel and his hair was black. He looked neither old, nor young. His gray eyes glanced over her as he spoke to Glorfindel.

"Harper," Glorfindel pointed to her, "Elrond," and then pointed to the new arrival.

She offered Elrond her hand in greeting but he ignored it, placing a hand on her forehead and then examining the bandages on her head and wrist instead. Meanwhile, Glorfindel left the room. Elrond continued to examine her.

After about ten minutes the door opened again. This time a pointy-eared woman entered. She also had dark hair. Her frame was very slender; her face possessed classical features. She was beautiful. Elrond introduced her as Nieriel. Together they helped Harper out of her bed and into an adjoining room, where she found a wash basin and a large, stone bathtub. Nieriel eased her onto a stool. Elrond exited silently.

Nieriel buzzed around while Harper studied the room in fascination. In addition to the wash basin and tub there was a small fireplace. Nieriel lit a fire and placed several large stones into the flames. Elrond came back into the room, followed by two more people. She recognized both right away as Robin Hood, and wondered which one had the bow and arrow and which one tackled her from behind. They were all three carrying large pails of water which they emptied into the tub.

"Harper," Elrond addressed her, "Elladan, Elrohir." He pointed to the respective twins who were identical in every way. She tried to find a way to distinguish them but could not. The resemblance between all three was very noticeable, perhaps they were all brothers.

After introductions the three males left. Nieriel began to undress her. They'd taken out of her fatigues and put her into some kind of robe. They'd left her sports bra and panties on, now Nieriel removed these garments. Her guns and knife were missing; she'd expected as much. All three were loaded. She'd left both pistols with the safeties on. She hoped whoever had the firearms would be smart enough to leave them alone. Her watch was also gone, but her dog tags remained hanging around her neck.

Nieriel used some kind of contraption to pull the stones out of the fire and placed them one-at-a-time into the tub, testing the water after each one. She helped Harper in, being careful to keep the bandages dry.

Harper hadn't had a bath in so long. It'd been showers since she was eight, and she'd been bathing herself for even longer. Nieriel lathered her hair with some kind of fragrant oil. Harper had gone poo free years ago. She found her wavy locks responded better to just conditioner, and a good washing with baking soda and vinegar every third day or so. But all the Merry Men she'd seen so far had great looking hair, shiny, long, no visible tangles or split-ends, so she didn't complain.

While Nieriel washed her like a child Harper thought about the pointy-ears. In the real world, pointy-ears were caused by a genetic mutation. In Section 8 Land it seemed to be the norm. Or maybe she was missing the point entirely. Maybe they weren't people per se, but something else. After all, there were trolls in Section 8 Land and trolls didn't exist. Maybe they were…_elves?_ Elves had pointy ears. Elves didn't exist. But weren't elves supposed to live at the North Pole, helping Santa make his toys, or fix shoes or something?

She couldn't very well ask. _Hey Nieriel, am I saying that right? I don't mean to offend but are you an elf?_

The hot water felt very nice. Unfortunately she'd been so filthy that it clouded quickly. Nieriel had barely gotten Harper's hair rinsed when it was time to get out. The…_elf_ helped her up and out of the tub. She dressed Harper in fresh robes which felt a lot like silk, and then set about combing Harper's seriously neglected hair.

Harper, meanwhile, tried desperately to keep from thinking about her family, or the friends she'd left behind, dead, far away from home. Naturally the harder she tried not to think of them the more she thought about them.

Stew had been completely absent in Sherwood Forest. Harper wondered why. It had occurred to her, more than once, that the corpse which followed her in the forest was not Stew at all, but something sent by Lord Vader or whomever to thwart her Section 8 quest. Of course, that didn't make anything Dark Side Stew said less true-she'd denied him his last request, yelled at him during his last moments of life. In short she was a terrible person, going to Hell, and should probably have been taken out back and shot.

Why in the name of everything Holy those…_Vala_ chose her for this was completely beyond Harper's understanding. In fact, she got the impression that she wasn't even their first choice. It could have been the language thing. One would need to understand the Section 8 inhabitants if sent on a quest to save their world. How else could one locate "the Golden Lord?"

She would need to start to learning the Elvish tongue stat.

Nieriel gave up on Harper's hair and led her back into the main room. Elrond waited there. The sheets on her bed had been changed.

They put her to bed. Nieriel left. Elrond produced a bowl of broth and fed her slowly; she'd only had a few spoonfuls when exhaustion overcame her. He must have noticed, for he put the bowl down and took a seat in the chair next to her bed. She watched him move around for a while. It seemed he could not get comfortable. And then her eyelids closed.


	6. Chapter 6

I completely forgot about that whole disclaimer thing. I own nothing, trust me. This work is in no way for profit. And if that's not enough to keep the lawyers at bay…I'm judgment proof.

Well, many thanks to SoCalLily. I will try to fix the summary. Section 8 is a military term used when one receives a discharge for being mentally unfit. The idea for this story had been in my head for a while. I was a bit cautious of posting anything. I realize the whole "girl dropped into Middle Earth" thing is cliché, but it is fun to write. But I digress. Hopefully I will be able to update frequently. This chapter is a bit of filler.

* * *

He twisted about in the chair, watching the girl pace back-and-forth across the room. He did not know how much longer their father would insist on them guarding her, but he was growing impatient. They should have been out hunting orc, not babysitting a human who in all likelihood was a spy for the enemy.

Elrohir did not like the look of her. Her skin was too tanned, her eyes too dark; and she was far too tall, taller than any human woman he'd met. Tall females scared him. It probably had something to do with his grandmother.

_She_ would have agreed with him though; taking the girl in was not a good idea, in fact, it was a very bad idea. Glorfindel was getting soft in his old age, and his brother, well his brother was his brother-too much like their mother. Yes, their mother would have insisted on caring for the girl; Elrohir assumed that was why their father had accepted the human. Or perhaps he had been afflicted by age as had Glorfindel.

He crossed his legs and promptly uncrossed them. Mother had spent countless years lecturing them on proper posture-as many as Glorfindel had spent lecturing on proper grammar. He tried to honor her by sitting up straight, shoulders back. He tried to avenge her by ridding Arda of those foul creatures otherwise known as orcs. Erestor had told them once that the first orcs were elves, whom Morgoth captured and tortured. When their mother was captured that had been his greatest fear-that they'd find her turned into an orc.

Elrohir wanted nothing more than to grab his sword and disembowel dark creatures. He rose from his seat and ran a hand through his dark hair.

"If you are indeed an enemy spy, or if your intentions are ill, then I will hunt you, and I will kill you," he told her.

She looked at him, a confused expression on her face, and then went back to pacing. Elrohir sighed and began to pace himself. He'd been in that damn room for eight hours, while his brother was out patrolling the forest, probably in search of another dirty maiden to bring home.

"I am not supposed to be here," he said, and again she stopped her pacing to look at him. "I have very important things to do, lots of nasty things to kill. If you could just stop playing dumb and admit to being a spy it would save us all a lot of trouble."

She continued to stare blankly.

"I am not fooled by you. My vengeance will not be delayed because of your acting skills. My father and brother might think you are harmless enough, but I am not they."

Blank stare.

"Speak to me you spy!" To emphasize his threats Elrohir picked up the chair and threw it into the wall-the same wall which happened to bear Glorfindel's tapestry. The chair broke into several pieces and the tapestry came crashing down.

The girl looked a bit startled, but said nothing. She walked over to the mess and began to pick up the remains of the chair, stacking the pieces into a neat pile. As she did this Erestor broke into the room, face grim.

"Elrohir, what happened? Are you well? I heard a commotion and ran here immediately. Did she try to attack you?"

Elrohir sighed. "Calm down, Erestor; I am fine. And no, she did not try to attack me. I threw the chair."

"Why?" Their father's advisor asked, his attention clearly on the girl. "Oh," he did not wait for Elrohir's response, "_that_ chair. I hate that chair. I told Glorfindel to burn it a hundred years ago, but you know how he is about things. Oh, let me help you with that child!"

The girl had stopped cleaning up the chair and started attempting to re-hang the tapestry. Erestor went to her aid.

She took the elf's hand in her own and shook it up and down-a most curious greeting. "Harper," she said, releasing Erestor's hand and grabbing one end of the tapestry.

"Erestor," the Noldor introduced himself. Elrohir watched the entire scene in disgust.

An idea suddenly popped into his head. "Erestor," he said. "It is good that you came. It is my father's request that you relieve me from my guard duty. As you are certainly aware, the girl cannot be left alone." He left before Erestor could respond.

Elrohir made his way to the stables, careful to avoid being seen by their father. His bay stallion awaited him, prancing jovially when he spotted his master. "Yes, yes, let us find my brother," he spoke to the horse. "And kill some orcs."

* * *

Glorfindel was surprised to find Erestor in the room. The girl, _woman-_for she had surely come-of-age amongst her kind-sat on the edge of the bed. Erestor sat on the floor.

"What happened to my chair?" He asked, seeing the pile of wood in the corner.

"Oh, that," Erestor said. "Elrohir broke it. I do worry about him, Glorfindel. He has not taken his mother's absence well. I fear what might happen should he fail to regain control of his temper."

Glorfindel ignored this; it was a topic which most certainly needed to be addressed, and one that all save Erestor tended to avoid. He turned his attention to the woman instead, _Harper_. He liked the way the name sounded, exotic, much like her. She looked quite different from the last time he'd seen her three days prior. Gone was the filth and blood. Her hair had been combed; it fell in dark waves about her face. She was actually quite pretty, by human standards anyway.

"I am glad you are here, my friend," Erestor continued. "I have many things to do, and babysitting was not on my list."

"A baby amongst us, perhaps, but she is a grown woman. I am sure being babysat is not on her list," Glorfindel said.

"Very true. It is most unfortunate that we did not discover her in better times. I rather like her. She is very polite. We must find better furniture for this room. I shall return with another chair, one which does not come from your study, Glorfindel."

The Noldor left and Glorfindel took his place on the floor. Harper stared out one of the open windows. He did feel somewhat sorry for her, having spent two days in that room himself, waiting for her to wake up; it was rather confining. And Mandos knew how bored he'd been; at least at the end of his watch he could take comfort in the company of fellow elves. Harper had no one.

During his time away from her his curiosity piqued. He spent far too much time wondering what her name meant, where she'd come from, and of course whether or not she was truly a servant of the enemy. He did not know what to think about any of it. She seemed pleasant enough, but he'd lived too long to be so easily fooled by good manners.

Harper stood suddenly and then dropped to the floor. She began to exercise, much to his surprise, doing push-ups, one after another. He counted fifty before she collapsed, panting. She said something in her language, he assumed a curse, and remained on the floor for several moments. Eventually she flipped over onto her back and began doing sit-ups. Glorfindel lost count of these.

Then there was the dream. It was not uncommon that when he rested his mind would turn to Gondolin and he dreamed of the white city and its inhabitants. But seeing Ecthelion in the Fountain like that, unable to make out his friend's words…It could have been a warning, an omen. It seemed too coincidental, to experience that vision the same day they found her.

She stopped the sit-ups and huffed. The woman seemed frustrated with herself, as if she expected much better. Glofindel was surprised at the endurance she displayed. She was still quite emaciated. He wished he could ask her how long she'd been lost in the forest.

She stood up and resumed her place on the edge of her bed. He watched as she rubbed her right knee. They'd found a three-inch scar running down her knee cap. Elrond thought it intriguing. They also found a tattoo on her right ankle. Elladan theorized that the V-shaped symbol was meant to be an eagle. None of them knew what to make of the runes beneath it.

She looked at him then. "Glorfindel," she asked, pointing to the tapestry.

He understood.

Glorfindel sighed and nodded. "Glorfindel," he told her.

She bit her lower lip and cocked her head to the side, studying the ancient tapestry. She probably thought it was bit pretentious, having artwork depicting himself as a hero. After a couple minutes she began to speak. She talked for at least an hour. He didn't understand a word of it, but he knew that she was telling him about her home.

_He was back in Gondolin. The Fountain of the King splashed nearby. Somewhere a flute played that old, familiar tune. He did not want to look in water this time. He did not want to see his friend's lifeless form staring up at him-gray eyes so bright they gleamed like silver. _

_The flute stopped playing. "Silver and gold," said a voice behind him, "inseparable for so long…"_

_Glorfindel turned quickly. "Ecthelion," he choked. His fair-faced friend stood before him. Light surrounded Ecthelion, like a halo; his helmet was gone; his black hair fell free about his face. _

"_It has been many years, my friend. Time has been kind to you, Glorfindel; you are just as I remember."_

"_As are you, Ecthelion."_

_They embraced._

"_There is much to discuss, Glorfindel, and very little time. Do you remember when we first came to this valley? How we'd sneak off to swim in our favorite pool, leaving others to haul stone?"_

_Glorfindel laughed. "That was the least of our mischief, I fear. I am surprised Turgon ever made us chiefs of anything. Especially after we put that concoction into The Fountain! The city was covered in suds."_

_They both laughed. It felt just like old times. Silver and gold in a city of white…_

"_I must retract my previous statement, Glorfindel; you are not exactly as I remember. It seems your dress is much more…subdued. Does the Peredhel not allow you to roam about his halls in robes made of golden cloth?"_

"_Ah," Glorfindel replied, "I have finally grown out of my attention-seeking phase as Turgon put it." _

"_I have a message for you," Ecthelion's voice lost its playful edge. "The human woman in your care, she is important, Glorfindel. Time is of the essence. You must train her. You must teach her everything you know, and you only have a year."_

"_I do not understand. Who is she? What is her purpose?"_

"_She is not from Arda. The Valar brought her to aid in the fight against Sauron. Train her, Glorfindel. After one year take her to Galadriel."_

"_I will train her," Glorfindel promised._

"_It is time for me to leave you, Lord of the Golden Flower. Farewell my friend."_

_And Ecthelion was gone._

* * *

"That makes a total of ten colts and five fillies. Which reminds me, we must acquire new furniture for our young guest's room; the chair which was there is no longer suitable."

"How do colts and fillies remind you of a new chair?" Elrond asked Erestor. They were sitting in Elrond's study.

"That is simple, my Lord! You see, horses are to be ridden. One must sit upon a horse, just as one must sit upon a chair. Really, Elrond, you are beginning to sound like Glorfindel."

Said elf lord chose that exact moment to burst into the room.

"Does no one think to knock anymore?" Elrond sighed. When Erestor had failed to show up that afternoon with his daily reports Elrond had only thought to count himself blessed and took the opportunity to catch up on correspondence with his mother-in-law. He had just addressed the letter to Galadriel-though he had spent at least an hour prior contemplating what to write-when Erestor entered his study…without knocking, promptly sat down, and commenced, well, being Erestor.

"I must train her," Glorfindel exclaimed. He seemed a bit frazzled, which startled Elrond, though he didn't show it. Elf Lords brought back from the dead by the Valar due to their heroic acts and moral superiority simply were not meant to be frazzled. "Immediately, time is of the essence."

"Train who?" Erestor asked. "Oh, _her,_" he did not wait for Glorfindel's reply. "Train her to do what?"

"Everything! Elrond, I had a dream…a vision. I was in Gondolin and Ecthelion was there. He told me to train her for a year and then take her to Galadriel. He told me to teach her everything I know, that she was brought here by the Valar to aid us in the fight against Sauron."

Elrond allowed Glorfindel to finish his tirade and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "When did you have this…vision?"

"Not even ten minutes ago."

This most assuredly put Elrond in quite the predicament. One son wanted to kill her, the other wanted to let her roam free about his halls, and now Glorfindel wanted to train her in the arts of the warrior. Elrond himself did not necessarily believe the human to be evil, but there were many things which concerned him. And yet…if Glorfindel truly had this vision…one did not lightly disregard the dreams of those returned from the dead.

"I will need some time to think about this. Someone track down Mithrandir; his counsel is much appreciated. In fact, Erestor, find my sons, have _them_ track down Mithrandir. In the meantime, we should start teaching her Westron. Perhaps once she is able to communicate with us we can better gage her true intentions."

"There is no time for this!" Glorfindel was adamant. Elrond had not seen his friend so worked-up in several hundred years. "We have but a year. Her training must commence today. There are so many things she must learn, how to shoot a bow, how to wield a sword, Sindarin, Quenyan, and so much more. I beg you to reconsider, Elrond. "

"Give me time, Glorfindel. I always take your advice quite seriously."

Glorfindel's demeanor changed at this. His face became somber. "I know, my friend, I know," he said quietly. "I will begin to teach her Westron until I hear otherwise from you, my Lord."

Elrond frowned. Glorfindel rarely addressed him formally, usually only if the balrog slayer felt guilty about something.

"Oh that reminds me!" Erestor broke the uncomfortable, albeit brief, silence. "We are running low on honey."

Glorfindel slipped out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry for the delay. Life has caught up with me. Since the beginning of May I have graduated, moved, spent a week in California (I reside on the East Coast), and now I'm back in school. Anyway, I am an attorney's nightmare defendant-judgment proof. I don't even own my car, much less anything associated with Lord of the Rings. Thank you very much to all who reviewed. Things should start to pick up here soon.

* * *

The dream was usually the same and it occurred almost every night of her imprisonment in what had to be the most beautiful POW camp…well…ever. Except on the nights when one of the elves gave her that drink-which tasted suspiciously like Castor Oil.

It started with those now all-too familiar smells. Cooking flesh. Boiling blood. Rotting meat. And then the voice came, whispering into her ear. _Murderer! They're dead because of you. You don't belong here. How many more will die for you?_ The room grew hot, like the inside of a burning copter, and something heavy pressed down upon her chest.

When they were little the family often spent their summer vacations in Georgia, on Jekyll Island. On Saturdays their mother took them to the local farmer's market; while she shopped, Harper and Cal sat with an old Gullah Geechee woman, who weaved sweet-grass baskets. She told them stories. Once she told them about the Boo Hag, an evil creature who'd sneak into a sleeping person's bedroom, sit upon their chest, and steal their breath. The only way to prevent this was to sleep with a Bible. For 17 years Harper slept with a Bible beneath her pillow.

When she had the dream and woke-up gasping for breath, she wanted nothing more than a Bible to hold onto.

She looked to the tapestry for reassurance instead-Glorfindel in golden armor, battling evil. She had a feeling the battle actually took place. It was something about the way he looked at the tapestry and his tone of voice when she'd asked him about it. Harper wanted to know more. She wanted to know how-how to be strong in the face of so much darkness. She wanted to know if it burned, battling that fiery demon, if it hurt him, if he was afraid.

But on that night the dream was different, worse. She was back in the desert. There was no helicopter, but bodies were strewn about the dunes.

The elves…

Their beautiful forms were marred and burned. Before her eyes they began to change. They shrank in stature, hunched over; elegant fingers became claws, fangs sprouted from their mouths, brilliant blue and gray eyes turned into black death.

One of them walked toward her, clumps of golden blonde hair falling from his head. She wanted to run, but her legs were frozen to the spot. The thing-she dare not think his name-grabbed her arm. "When I fought the Dark Lord," it hissed, "I lost. And I died. So will you, Harper…"

"Harper." The voice changed. The desert went black. "Harper." She couldn't breathe. People were speaking. She couldn't understand. "Harper." Something warm touched her hand.

Harper caught her breath and opened her eyes. "Glorfindel," she choked. His hair was all there, a mane of gold. His fingers were fingers. His eyes were still blue. White light surrounded him.

An angel…a god…

One of the Els stood beside him. Because the twin did not look totally pissed, she assumed it was Elladan.

They stared at her. It made Harper uncomfortable.

"Harper," Glorfindel said again. He handed her a pile of clothing and through elaborate hand gestures she figured out that he wanted her to go into the washroom and change. She complied.

Maybe they'd decided that she'd been prisoner long enough. Maybe execution was scheduled for dawn. Maybe those _Vala_ should have known better than to choose her.

Maybe the only way to regain her sanity was to complete her Section 8 quest.

Harper inspected the clothing. He'd given her breeches and some sort of tunic. This was strange. So far all she'd been given to wear were robes and dresses-very nice robes and dresses, high quality goods which would have cost a fortune in the real world. She could just imagine Hollywood skinny I-jog-with-my-maltipoo-and-only-eat-800-calories-a-day super models wearing the elvin (or was it elfish…or elvish?) clothing down the runways in Milan.

And that made her think of Nana, who gave her nothing but clothes for birthdays and Christmas, dresses and skirts, high-heels. Nana who insisted Harper learn to behave like a proper lady...straight out of Victoria- era England. Countless afternoons she was forced to spend inside, learning etiquette. Harper closed her eyes and heard Nana's shrill voice. _Which fork is for fish? A lady would never wear blue jeans, Harper; do you take no pride in your name? _

Thank God the old woman died before they joined-up. Their poor parents would have never heard the end of it. It was bad enough when they started training with the Colonel, whom Nana blamed for her son marrying below his rank. Nana came from a rich family established on Sullivan's Island. Her father squandered their fortune- something Grandpa didn't know when he married her. Harper didn't think it would have made a difference anyway. J.R. Leonard loved his wife (who was the only person to call him Charles).

It was Nana who took her to Milan…without Cal. The first time the twins had been separated for more than a few days. It was miserable. They spent a week there, going to fashion shows, spending exuberant amounts of money. She even had to miss a basketball game, not that Nana approved of Harper playing basketball.

But it _was_ a nice trip. Despite herself Harper had been thrilled by the fashion shows and reveled in the spending. Their parents taught them to be responsible with their money, and not to flaunt it. Mom bought their clothes from retail stores, Belk, JC Penny; they were given used Subaru station wagons when they turned 16-stick shifts, their mother insisted; they went to public schools and were not allowed anywhere near their trust funds until they secured suitable employment. When Nana took her to Milan, the summer before she started high school, the importance of what clothes a kid wore, what car they drove, had increased substantially, and she begged their father for a Jaguar when she returned.

Eventually she grew out of it, learned to appreciate her Subaru-which she still drove. Well, did drive. Harper seriously doubted she'd be seeing any station wagons any time soon. From what she'd observed she assumed horse was the preferred means of transportation in Section 8 Land.

And that brought her right back to Nana. The woman had insisted Harper take horseback-riding lessons. Apparently it was the sport of rich people. She suspected her grandmother had hoped to dissuade her from basketball with dreams of Equestrian Olympic gold. Harper lasted about three weeks. The horse she rode, named Fantastic and it was _not_, spooked and threw her. She bruised her tailbone, had to miss two days of basketball practice and had not been back on a horse since.

Harper went back into her very atheistically pleasing prison cell. The elves were waiting for her. Glorfindel gave her a look and said something which she understood to be, _what took you so long?_ Apparently men really were all the same.

He handed over her boots and socks, which went MIA with her watch and firearms. She put them on quickly. Elladan gently took hold of her arm. He placed a blindfold over her eyes and led her out the door.

Harper paid careful attention to the turns they made. After about five minutes she felt a breeze tug at her hair. The air turned cool, damp; she was finally outside.

They walked for another ten minutes, Elladan leading her by the arm. Occasionally a twig or leaf brushed against her arms and legs.

When they stopped Elladan removed the blindfold, and Harper found herself in a large rectangular clearing, approximately three times the size of a football field. The clearing was bordered by trees and lit by a single torch.

They tried to communicate with her. Elladan made circular motions with his hand. She had no idea what he meant.

The elf sighed. He took off, sprinting about 100 yards before turning around and coming back. When he stopped he made more circular motions.

She got it. They wanted her to run laps.

Harper nodded; smiling she said, "Okay, I get it," and took off running.

She ran along the outskirts of the clearing, praying there were no holes or low- hanging branches. They last thing she needed was a broken ankle or another concussion. And doing something so clumsy in front of those oh-so-graceful elves, well, she didn't need _that _either.

Running laps she could do. Running she could do. The first day of basketball practice at the academy they walked into the gym to find trashcans on the four corners of the court. Coach told them to run. Basketball players needed stamina; they needed to be in shape. _Run hard, if you need to puke, puke, then keep running._ It didn't take very long for some of the girls. Then they started dropping like flies.

But the Colonel had prepared her. He made them run in the mid-day, mid-summer Charleston heat. He made them run in the freezing December cold. Harper could run all day

She ran hard. It felt good, good to be outdoors, out of her cell, to be mobile, doing something other than sitting around getting fat and lazy.

Her legs burned. She relished the feeling.

Harper didn't know how long she ran. Eventually Glorfindel flagged her down and she jogged over to him. It was still dark. She suspected that this was not an entirely authorized outing.

Glorfindel seemed pleased. He allowed her to stretch and then demonstrated various exercises, speaking to her the entire time. Harper was starting to pick up a few words.

She did everything he asked, push-ups, sit-ups, mountain-climbers, and her least favorite-chin-ups. She knew he was testing her.

By the time they got to the chin-ups the sky started to lighten. She used the branch of a tree to pull herself up. The bark rubbed the skin of her palms raw. Her arms shook. She dropped much sooner than she'd have liked. Cal always did five times more than her.

Harper fell to the ground in a very unelf-like manner, landing hard on her ass. "Shit," she mumbled, waiting to hear Glorfindel and Elladan laughing at her.

Instead Elladan helped her up. The elves nodded and spoke to each other, undoubtedly about her. Elladan took hold of her arm again and replaced the blindfold. They led her back to the room. Once again she paid close attention to the turns.

Back in the room, the elves commenced staring. Harper was covered in sweat. One thing Nana could not teach her was how to perspire like a lady. She hadn't bothered to look in the mirror that morning either. Her hair was likely a frizzy mess, pulled back in a sloppy pony-tale. All-in-all she looked awful and smelled worse. _What I wouldn't give for some Lady Speedstick,_ she thought.

Harper averted her eyes. Elladan might have been a bit scrawny, but he was still incredibly…masculine and…good-looking. All of them were good-looking…_perfect_. She'd only seen one she-elf so far, and, well, Harper couldn't compete with _that_.

Not that she was there to snag a husband. No, she'd been assigned a slightly more important task. Besides, maintaining any kind of "serious" relationship had been hard enough in the real world. Apparently men found her…emasculating. She couldn't imagine how hard it'd be to keep a boyfriend _here_-especially if in all likelihood he was a product of her delusions.

Marriage was a lost cause anyway, even if she did made it back to the real world-or regain her sanity. They were turning 30 in August. Men became distinguished with age. Women sagged. It'd already begun. She found a few stray strands of white hair. Hangovers hurt a lot more than they used to. And her tits just weren't quite as perky as when she was 21.

Oh well.

Elladan left the room. Glorfindel walked to one of the windows. He spoke to her. She caught the word _ecthelion_ several times.

"Glorfindel," she said. "That sounds great. What's a woman got to do to get a shower around here?"

He cocked an eyebrow. The expression was adorable, and she hated using that word in reference to men.

Harper motioned him to follow her into the washroom. She pointed at the tub. "Bath," she said.

His face lit up with a smile that made him look like a 15-year-old boy. "Bath," he repeated, and pointed toward the door.

Clearly she was missing something.

Just then Elladan came back, carrying a large pail of water. It wasn't enough to fill the tub but just enough for her to get clean.

Harper bathed quickly. The water was cold. She stared at the hair on her legs and that growing beneath her arms, wondering what it would take to get a razor. Maybe if she asked nicely enough Glorfindel could teach her how to shave with a sword.

She rinsed out her hair and got out of the tub. Harper put on the robe she'd worn prior to that morning's workout session.

Glorfindel waited for her. He had a platter of food, books, parchment, and quills. Her room had new furniture too, chairs and a desk.

They ate together; he spoke to her the entire time. When they finished eating her first language lesson began. Glorfindel started by pointing out objects in the room. She repeated every word after him several times. He then placed the quill into her hand and showed her an alphabet to copy. When she switched the quill into her left hand he gave her another _adorable_ look. The lesson went on for quite some time, when all of a sudden, the elf took up the books and parchment, placed them in the armoire with her robes and…_winked_.

Erestor walked in the door. He carried books, parchment, and quills.

Glorfindel bid her good day, taking the empty platter with him.

Erestor commenced her second language lesson-a completely different language. In fact, she had not previously heard any elf speak this tongue. Westron, it was called.

If it wasn't for her training, education, and talent, Harper would have had a very hard time learning the two languages simultaneously. Which meant either Glorfindel knew about this whole, save-the-world thing, or he just thought she was one clever chick; maybe even both, it would be nice for those _Vala_ to give her a bit of help, until she found this Golden Lord fellow anyway.

* * *

The oxygen machine hummed.

"A lady should always carry herself with proper posture," Nana told her. "And Charles, spit out that gum."

Her brother did as he was told.

She continued to slump.

They'd watched The Empire Strikes Back the night before, and she couldn't get it out of her head. Darth Vader was Luke's _father_! Harper honestly did not see it coming. Cal had laughed at the shocked expression on her face.

Their parents made them go to bed when the movie ended. They could watch Return of the Jedi after their Latin lessons, and quality time spent with Grandpa Leonard.

Grandpa Leonard didn't know they were there. He lay in his hospital bed; his haggard breathing reminded her of Darth Vader.

Nana turned him to the dark side.

She almost giggled.

"He's not really Luke's father, is he Cal?"

Cal grinned. "Why wouldn't he be? I thought you said Star Wars was stupid anyway?" His dirty blonde hair had been lightened by the summer-sun, days spent surfing at Folly Beach. He liked to do things she couldn't, like surfing, and baseball.

Softball just wasn't the same thing.

It drove her insane.

"It _is_ stupid. I mean, Luke is a _Jedi_. Vader is evil. I bet he's lying. I bet Obi-Wan is really Luke's father."

"Well," he leaned over and ruffled her hair. "I guess you'll just have to wait and find out, sis."

Cal didn't look anything like the rest of them. They all had dark hair, dark eyes, long limbs. Except Grandpa Leonard, _he_ had green eyes, and lighter hair, but not as light as Cal's. He wasn't short like Cal either.

"Cut it out, _Charles_._" _ She swatted his hand away. Only Nana called him Charles. Cal hated it.

They sat right next to Grandpa's bed, purposely avoiding looking at the dying man. He'd been delusional for weeks, mumbling nonsense. He didn't even recognize them.

Grandpa was a quiet man, especially compared to the Colonel who yelled _everything_.

His eyes opened suddenly, filled with intense clarity. She stopped bickering with her brother.

Grandpa pulled off his oxygen mask. "Where are my grandchildren, I must tell them," his voice was stronger than she'd ever heard it.

"We're right here, Grandpa," Cal said.

Their grandfather's green eyes turned on Cal. "Son," he said. "Observe the time, and fly from evil." And then he looked at Harper. "You both must remember. You must _understand_, Harper. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions." His eyes clouded over. The nurse replaced his oxygen mask.

He died two weeks later.

She didn't understand why the memory came to her that morning. She waited for Glorfindel and Elladan, pacing in front of her bed when it hit her-sitting with their grandfather. _The road to Hell is paved with good intentions_.

"I think I'm cracking up," she said to woven Glorfindel.

They didn't come for her that morning. For five days the routine had been the same. Glorfindel and Elladan woke her up hours before dawn for endurance training. Then Glorfindel tutored her in Sindarin and fed her gluttonous amounts of food. If she didn't know any better-and she didn't-she'd have thought the elf was trying to fatten her up; after Sindarin Erestor would come in for Westron lessons.

She didn't sleep that night. The elves had been leaving her alone in her room at night. One sat outside her door, listening, she was sure, for any escape attempts. And they were bound to hear everything with those ears. She lay awake thinking of her family, of her friends.

Harper didn't have any real friends until the Air Force. There were certain girls she associated with in high school, teammates mostly, but even then she was self-aware enough to realize the relationships were mostly superficial. Not that she didn't have fun with those girls-she just the friendships weren't very deep. Cal was her best friend, her confidant. And then Stew.

They didn't get along at first. Stew didn't appreciate babysitting the interpreter. He was wary of all women in the military.

Her thoughts were interrupted by rapid knocking. "Enter," she called out in Westron, just in case.

Glorfindel strode into the room, grinning from ear-to-ear. The sight made Harper smile; he was clearly excited about something.

"Well met, my friend!" He exclaimed, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her out the door before she could respond.


End file.
